Ebb and Flow
by Fib1123581321
Summary: 'War does not determine who is right - only who is left.' Thirteen Districts. Twenty-six tributes. One victor. Friendship and romance. Loyalty and betrayal. Cowardice and sacrifice. Hope and fear. Life and death. Ebb and flow. Let the 69th annual Hunger Games begin. Collab with someelee.
1. Prologue

_**Note:** Hello all! The following is a collaborative, ongoing fan-fiction for The Hunger Games written by myself and ff author, someelee. It offers an omniscient view of our take on the 69th Games, with all original tributes and a Games-participating District 13. Of course, the presence of 13 means that this story is_ not_ canon to the original books, though 13 is the _only_ difference, and it was added for specific reasons that will present themselves as the story progresses. Our first chapter begins at the end, so to speak, and we really hope you enjoy it.**  
**_

_Of course, setting and selective characters belong to Suzanne Collins. Thank you for reading!_

_-Hailey_

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**1 – Prologue**

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"_War does not determine who is right – only who is left."_

_-Bertrand Russell_

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_**69**__**th**__** Annual Hunger Games – Victory Tour**_

There is but a sole person in the whole of District 1, and she is beautiful. The others act as if they don't see her, but they do. It would be impossible to ignore a mother of twins, because such a woman sheds twice as many tears as any other. But at this moment, after this war, her beauty does not parallel her soul.

Bryant knows that she was never truly his; his peers have constantly reminded him of the concrete relationship she and Cram once possessed. "It doesn't matter," he retaliates, "Eventually it cracked, like all concrete does in the end." He tells them this, but he never believes it. Sweeping the mourning crowd with his eyes of steel, he promises himself that he will never again allow his heart to be smashed into rubble.

A man named Ted stands in the back of a crowd in the city of lights. He is confused by the emotional faces surrounding him – the sadness, the bewilderment, the fear. He himself has been overcome by these same sentiments for most of his life, but what he feels now is a foreign sensation to him. Ted has never had a reason to admit to such a thing, but now, because of her, he can. She has made him proud.

Salty despair does not pour from the people of District 4, for no one knew him. All these years, Tapa Bay kept his boy from the world, trying to protect him from the fates. Never was his son building castles out of sand... no, all he ever did was sit obediently next to his father and rhythmically intertwine rope after rope. Somehow, though, Tapa still failed to protect his son from the utmost terrible fate, and so he is the only one who can shed his sadness. He is the only one who has been wrapped in this net of despair.

District 5 is Panem's guide through the darkness. She is Lottie's guide through the darkness. Astonishingly blue eyes widen and look up in confusion, for everyone is crying. Should Lottie be crying? _Where is her sister?_ Frantically, Lottie looks around for the one who shares her same eyes, who holds her like no one else can. When Lottie is told that Pippa has fled to the land of light, sapphire orbs cast shadows upon Lottie's falling tears.

Wren doesn't know why there are so many birds. She doesn't know where her name came from, nor her brother Jay's, nor her sister Sparrow's. Maybe their parents intended to create a tiny flock of children, bound by incredible wingspan and mutual instinct. Maybe the Lark family hoped to pay some sort of homage to the transportation district. Or maybe, as Wren is thinking now, she and her siblings were just born to fly away.

Fathers are meant to be strong, like wood. Daughters are meant to be woven, like vines. It all fits, because in District 7, men haul lumber while women weave baskets. Sawyer is one of those men, just as he is one of those fathers. For whatever reason, though, he still doesn't know how to be rid of his own splinters, and it is too late to weave through his daughter's thorns.

_ How did we begin? _Thread ponders bitterly. _What was it that bound us together?_ He shakes his head with a low sigh; it matters not how they became one, since they were torn apart by the cruel seamstresses up above. How sadistic of them to tailor two beings to fit together, bind them and embroider them with affection, and then simply snip the connecting strings with a pair of blunt and rusty scissors bearing the name of death. Head cocked backward, he silently curses the witches who stitched this tragic textile.

District 9 is nothing special. Tori Moon is nothing special either. She's small and pretty, but she is not unique. Perhaps the rest of her makes up for her normalcy – her loud mouth, her brutal honesty, and her fierceness. She is what her friends call popcorn, a firecracker. They all admire her personality, but they shouldn't. Tori is nothing special, because every unique part of her, she stole from her sister.

No one takes a pig seriously. To the Capitol, a pig is a source of food. To District 10, a pig is a source of income. But Craig knows better. In fact, he is confident that he can hold his own in a debate concerning the intelligence of a swine to a Capitol citizen. Pigs are arguably the smartest of all the livestock, and they also have excellent memories. As Craig grievingly looks upon his late brother's favorite pig, he knows that it will remember its owner until the end.

Much like the fields that regrow after the fires, it is the natural cycle of life for a child to one day lose their parent. But Panem has never followed the rules. In this country, youth are taken from their homes every year, and mothers such as the one now standing on burning grass must let go of their seeds. For the next few months, the ones leading up to this very day, those mothers must wait in agony for the tiny coffins to be made.

All eyes are on her, because they know that she knows. Jasmine knows their tale, set amidst the coal dust. She has been there since the opening act. She has seen it play out, build up, and reach a climax. As she holds back her tears, she wishes that the tale didn't have to end this way.

District 13 no longer exists, but the people in it do. Right now, those people are moving, the fighters swarming up to the Justice Building and attacking the Capitol's Peacekeepers, the fleers digging downward. Nothing will ever be the same here, but Henri could have said that at the reaping. He could have bet his life on it as soon as the names of the two tributes were read – one for the bomb and one for the explosion. He knew then that everything would change. Still, he never guessed that the rebellion would drive the entire district underground. He wouldn't have bet that the tributes would be freed, or that he would be the one getting buried. Mostly, though, he didn't expect to be buried with the victor.

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_**Note:** Thanks for reading! The prologue was meant to be short and sweet, but upcoming chapters will be much longer. Anyway, what did you think so far? Any questions as to what happened to 13, or who the victor might be? By all means, tell/ask us in a review; all feedback is appreciated. The next chapter will describe the thirteen reapings in detail, but please let us know if you'd like us to continue the story._

_-Hailey + Somee  
_


	2. Tributes and Tribulations

_**Note: **So here's the long chapter we promised! It's actually a lot longer than we planned for it to be, but we really wanted to dig into the detail of each reaping in order to give you all a sense of the characters. Anyway, please don't feel obligated to read it in one sitting, and we're appreciative of all who manage to get through it. Also, this story is going to be uploaded word for word on my (Hailey's) tumblr page, alongside banners with actors we've casted for each of the tributes, so be sure to check them out here (remove the spaces): fib112358132134. tumblr tagged /ebb_and_flow. _

_Anyway, thank you for reading, and enjoy the chapter!_

_-Hailey and Somee_

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**2 – Tributes and Tribulations**

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_**69**__**th**__** Annual Hunger Games – Reaping Day**_

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**District 1**

Beauty was everything. In a world that trapped its people in districts and never allowed them to leave, the kind of world that pitted those districts against one another by taking their children and making them kill each other for sport, and the same world that had somehow convinced those children that killing their peers to survive would bring them eternal glory, vanity was the only thing that seemed worthwhile.

Of course, it didn't hurt that here, in the district that was responsible for providing luxury to the Capitol of Panem, mirrors covered nearly every surface. Glass was far easier to come by than brick or wood, and diamonds were as commonly crafted as malleable metals. All the most fragile, complicated, and deadly things were made here. They were sharp and strong and never bent before they broke, just like the perfectly arrogant workers who manufactured them.

Most of the people in District 1 considered themselves to be the fittest of all in Panem. They were by far the richest, prettiest, and most intelligent of any other district, and even rivaled the Capitol citizens in talent and taste. They were gorgeously stunning and valiantly brave – everything the other districts, other tributes, and other families wanted to be. They were the ones people stopped to stare at, intimidated in every possible way.

The children were brought up knowing this. They went to school to learn survival skills and joined martial arts teams to learn how to fight. It was all very civilized, so long as no one ever questioned the system, or what might happen if it resulted in a loss. That was what had pinned all the mothers to the walls, stuck behind their haughty husbands and unheard by their striving sons and determined daughters.

But they couldn't help it. In a district that brewed careers, what were the women supposed to do? It wasn't in their nature to encourage their own flesh and blood to grow into trained killers, but they couldn't very well protest the tradition. Still, they never managed to adapt to the goodbyes, to the fear that consumed them once their children were gone, or to the grief that stole their souls when those children never returned.

After all, there was always one that didn't come home. People could boast about the district's winning streak for days on end, but it didn't change the fact that while two tributes were reaped each year, only one was to be crowned the victor. Odds were that victor would in fact be from District 1, just like the recent siblings, Gloss and Cashmere, who won the last two consecutive Hunger Games, respectively. Even so, upon each of their returns home, most of the district seemed to have forgotten about the other tribute – the one whose family would never be whole again. It was the mothers who always remembered.

On the morning that marked the start of the 69th Hunger Games, Eileen Bright was crying before the sun came up. She was the last of her family to get out of bed, putting on a silky white dress to match the string of pearls around her neck. Wordlessly, she left the house trailing behind her husband and their three children, all of whom practically skipped across the freshly cleaned sidewalks all the way to the town square.

Maika and her father were the closest to Eileen, and they were arguing over the best time to yell out a name at the escort. Maika had had her fair share of practice, for she'd tried to volunteer at three different reapings from the time she was sixteen, none of which she'd been quick enough to be named the tribute for. It had been four years since she'd even been in the running, but now her siblings were eager to take their turns.

The twins, Flash and Krissy, were walking up in front, already racing each other to the registration tables. They had just turned seventeen, and their teachers and coaches had finally told them they were ready. Now, all they had to do was be quick to volunteer and be lucky enough to be chosen. They were both going to try, just to increase the odds of one of them being picked, but Eileen was hoping that, at least for today, those odds wouldn't be in their favor.

Flash and Krissy were quickly lost in the crowd of excited, chatty teens that had been packed in front of the marble Justice Building. All the children were wearing their finest clothes, for everyone in District 1 was wealthy enough to afford the most expensive items, and the jewelry emanated from the mass of people in sparkles and shine, illuminating the entire district just as soon as the sun peaked over the expanse.

Eileen took her place in the back of the crowd, the spot behind prospective tributes that had been reserved for family members. Her husband and Maika were on their tip-toes as the fantastically fashionable mayor stepped onto the stage and silenced the crowd with his opening address.

"Welcome, welcome!" he called. "I am overjoyed to see all of you here, ready and proud to have the chance to bring honor and victory to our district! Now, without further ado, I call upon my esteemed colleague, straight from the Capitol herself, Lux Lantern!" Everything that had come out of his mouth had taken the form of a squeal, and everyone in the crowd had clapped and cheered – everyone but Eileen and all the other mothers of volunteer children, whose faces were shining more from their glossy eyes than their glistening necklaces.

Lux Lantern, the escort for District 1, was thin but tall in her heels, with perfectly curled ringlets of auburn hair and wide, round green eyes. She was wearing a top hat with a bouquet of fake flowers pinned to it, and the entire crowd leaned forward in unison to get a good view of her.

She had the attention of the district within seconds, everyone listening closely as she said, "Happy Hunger Games!" Her voice wasn't nearly as squeaky as the mayor's, but was actually quite deep and raspy, as hard to hear as whiskey was to swallow.

"Now," she continued, "This is a day that all of Panem looks forward to _each_ and _every _year, so let's take a moment to see where it all began."

Right on cue, a video started playing on the screen from the adjacent building. Eileen had watched it every year since the day she'd been born, and it was exactly the same then as it was now. It started off by showing horrendous footage of the War of Panem, the battle that had split the country into thirteen districts all centered around a single Capitol. The thirteenth district had nearly been annihilated in the process, but surrendered when it was clear that the Capitol had won. In exchange for sparing the districts, the Capitol created the Hunger Games, an annual event that took two children between the ages of twelve and eighteen from each of the districts, placed them into a man-made arena, and forced them to kill each other until only one remained. The video detailing this history was brutal, mighty, and filled to the brim with exaggerations and lies. For most districts, that was enough for them to watch on with fury raging through their veins, but for District 1, it offered a life with the enemy, which was all any of them could hope for.

Once the cheering subsided, Lux addressed the crowd once more and rubbed her hands together as she sneered, "All right, then, let the Games begin!"

This was where things grew complicated. Lux was standing beside a table that had two bowls on it, each with little scraps of papers bearing the names of all potential tributes in the district, one bowl for the girls and one for the boys. Of course, the names she picked were never used nor heard, for as soon as her fingers touched the paper, hands shot up from the two or three back rows of females as they all shouted their names into the air.

"Dorothy Rivers!" one called.

"Arabella Feather!" yelled another. There were too many voices speaking over each other to know which came first, so Lux had to search through the volunteers and pick the one she liked best.

The girls were still screaming when a voice twice as loud as any other came roaring across the square. "_KRYSTAL BRIGHT!_" said the voice, and everyone else silenced immediately. The blonde bombshell with sharp cheekbones and pure blue eyes didn't wait for permission to walk on stage. Lux didn't need to say anything before it was established that Krissy, Eileen's baby girl, would serve as this year's female tribute.

The boys were up next, and their screams were nearly deafening. Eileen shot her neck out in hopes of seeing her son, and caught sight of Flash at the exact moment Lux did. Flash had been calling out his name too, not willing to give up his chance just because his sister had already been picked, and Lux seemed to have made the connection. The Hunger Games had never reaped siblings in the same year, so she wasn't about to pass up the opportunity.

As Flash was brought to the stage to stand beside his twin sister, Eileen looked up at them with wonder. All she could focus on were their shining faces – pale, porcelain, perfect – but what she really saw was fragile, complicated, deadly. Her twins were sharp and strong and now they were about to break, just like the beautiful woman who had manufactured them.

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**District 2**

A weapon was only as powerful as the one who wielded it. That was the statement people lived by in District 2, the closest district to the Capitol in more ways than one. Once home to stone-cutters and cement-stirrers, the masonry district had grown from housing builders to manufacturing weapons. Isolation amongst the district's small villages that were scattered through the mountains had made the hearts and souls of the people as hard-headed and cracked as the rocks they worked with, so creating weapons was their perfect occupation.

Of course, District 2 was also responsible for the training of Peacekeepers, the Capitol's military puppets. The security guards would use the weapons that their fathers and brothers constructed to coldly reinforce the laws of the Capitol in their assigned district. Amongst the youth of District 2, it was an honor to be chosen as a trainee.

However, there was one honor that ranked far higher than being a simple, Capitol-controlled Peacekeeper. To the young warriors, to be a tribute for District 2 in the annual Hunger Games was the highest honor of them all, for the Games offered the sole opportunity for the children to show the rest of Panem how tough and determined they truly were.

Unlike most other districts, in which entering the Hunger Games was based on pure luck, the tributes of District 2 were decided by force. Each village had an academy that trained its children starting from the age of twelve to become soldiers. The training was not unlike the two-week period all tributes were given before the Games, with students dueling each other with swords, knives, and their own bare fists, and learning survival skills like building fires, finding water, and identifying flora. In other words, they would learn how to win. And as soon as their instructors saw that a student was ready, they would grant permission for the teenager to begin volunteering him or herself as tribute.

The excessive volunteering made the reaping a complicated process. The Justice Building where the event took place had been built in the district's Central Village, but getting there was a long journey for most of the other communities that were nailed all over the Rockies. In the past, the Capitol would send shuttle buses out to the villages to transport every eligible child along with one family member each to the reaping. However, this soon became a nuisance, as it was cost-ineffective to transport the twelve, thirteen, and fourteen year-olds who were not going to be able to volunteer over the older children. So, rather than starting the uproar at the reaping, eventually the Capitol decided to let the war begin with the shuttles.

Every year, four buses were sent to each village, and every bus had twenty-four available seats. With two of the buses reserved for family members, competition for the other forty-eight seats was an unseen Hunger Games all on its own. Handfuls of children were physically injured each year, but it was the scar that came from failing to obtain a seat that hurt the most.

This year, the collection of prospective tributes that made it to Central Village was tougher than any other before. Very few of them were able to win their seat unscathed, the vast majority bloodied up and bruised to different extents. In contrast to their violent appearances, they were silent and phlegmatic during the registration, lining up military-style to have their blood drawn and matched. Once this was done, the Peacekeepers made sure that everyone was roped together in their designated age group, many of the officers proudly regarding a younger brother or sister.

A large screen functioned as the backdrop for the stage, and it soon began playing the Dark Days video. Most of the district could recite it word for word, as academy instructors would often show the film in class to motivate their students. The air seemed to grow tenser as the video came to an end, though, a man stepping up to the podium to address the near two hundred teens that faced him.

With the tips of his golden locks dyed orange and gelled up, the escort's hairstyle made him look as though he was on fire. He was donned in pure white, everything from his suit to his pointy footwear, and clenched between his pearly teeth was a cigar that excreted crimson-tinted fumes.

"Good morning, everyone. I'm Otis Candle, but I'm sure you already know that." His tone of voice was the complete opposite of his flamboyant hair. It was flat and undefined, with barely any intonation. Clearly, this man was bored, and who could blame him? He had helped bring the title to dozens of tributes from two, and by now, he had seen everything. Nothing could surprise him anymore.

"As you all know, I shall draw the name of the female tribute first," he spoke again, this time inching over to a glass bowl filled with scraps of paper, all of which were blank because Otis would never be given the chance to read them anyway.

The girls began screeching like cats as soon as his hand slipped into the bowl. Names and slaps were thrown into the air, each female desperate to reach the platform and claim the glory, though the cries became quieter with each blow. Soon enough, only one young woman was left standing, towering over everyone in sharp heels and long legs built for kicking that were wrapped inside a tight dress that showed off her lean, toned body. Beads of sweat decorated her bronze skin like jewels, shining in the rays of the morning sun as she climbed up the stairs and stood next to Otis. Grabbing the microphone out from his hand confidently, she swung her long dark hair back and coolly introduced herself, stating, "Alta Ray of West Village, District Two tribute."

The flashy escort looked bored as ever, not at all affected by the display of violence that had just occurred before his very eyes. "Well, well, quite eager, aren't we?" he said with more than a hint of sarcasm. "Now that that's settled, it is time to choose a male tribute."

The uproar began once again at the moment Otis's fingertips brushed the glass. High-pitched screams and feminine slaps were replaced with low bellows and demolishing punches as the boys waged war against one another. Family members gasped and cried when specks of dark red sprayed from their kin and stained the cement ground. Grunts and groans were heard each time a body was slammed into another and soon a pile began to form, slowly filling with more and more children who had been knocked unconscious by yesterday's classmates, all of whom seemed to have become today's enemies.

After five minutes of intense conflict, only two boys remained. It was clear from their elephantine builds and serious expressions that they were among the eldest in the group, and both were desperate to take the last opportunity they had.

"I'm going with you, Alta!" cried the larger of the pair as he turned to face the podium. Alta seemed startled at his loyalty, but kept her facial muscles arranged in the stony way they had appeared before. The lack of reaction did not seem to sit well with the boy, his fists curling up into boulders. Across from him, his opponent looked upon the exchange with amusement.

"Everyone in our village knows that she doesn't love you, Bryant!" yelled the other, making it clear to the on-lookers that these two had trained in the same academy as Alta. Continuing, the opponent said, "I mean, come on, we all know you're the rebound-"

His words were cut off by a swift punch in the face that was dealt by a fuming Bryant. This triggered a hit thrown by the other boy that drew blood from Bryant's mouth. The scuffle went on for only another minute or so, concluding with Bryant's swollen face flat on the ground, the other boy beaming as he looked upon his victim.

Once he managed to turn away from Bryant, the last boy standing swung onto the stage effortlessly and took his place beside Alta. Taking a page from her book, he snatched the microphone from the girl and announced, "Diesel Mann, the best-looking male tribute you'll ever get from the West Village."

Otis, who still seemed rather indifferent to the whole situation, took back the microphone and announced in relief that the event was over, "Ladies and gentlemen, your District Two tributes!" Turning to Alta and Diesel, he added, "I wish you the best of luck, and remember that a weapon is only as powerful as the one who wields it." Everyone still standing in the district nodded in response, knowing that the statement was true... unless, of course, the wielder _was _the weapon. And after today, such an exception could easily be the case.

* * *

**District 3**

Games weren't only about winning. They were about making goals and accomplishing them. They were about focus and strategy. They were about teamwork and alliance. Mostly, though, they were about timing and luck. The people of District 3 didn't fare so well in the luck department, though, and so they were raised to work around it – to _control_ the game rather than play it. They were the strategists, and every step they took across the game board had a purpose, a reason, a destination. Sometimes, that destination led to victory, but usually it didn't. That was why people set their own goals – not goals to win, but perhaps to play fairly, or to go out fighting, or to somehow make their voice heard. That way, if the game only ended up in death, at least that death had a purpose. At least it accomplished something.

Most of the district kept this in mind as they marched into the square with the steady rhythm of perfectly choreographed footsteps. The teenagers were like robots, programmed from the time they were twelve to line up for their own slaughter once every year. To them, this ridiculous ceremony was merely the starting point of yet another game in which they were the masterminds. They all had their own plan hidden somewhere deep in their heads. They'd been perfecting it since they knew how to think, and by now their goals were set in stone. Everyone was prepared for their name to be called, and as they went through registration and turned to face the stage, they each took a deep breath. They filled their lungs with the smoky taste of fume-polluted air, but they were not fearful. They were ready.

It was quite some time before the mayor took his place at the podium, for all had arrived early. Punctuality was key for people whose jobs relied on carefully timed circuits and machines. Here, technology wasn't just a luxury or even a tool; it was a mind-set. Life in District 3 revolved around the clock tower that protruded from the Justice Building, ticking away the seconds that it took for every task to be completed and every dollar that was earned for it.

Now, that ticking was all anyone could hear, and soon hundreds of heartbeats had adopted the pace of the metronome. The robots were all synchronized in their silence as they listened to the opening speech from the bespectacled mayor who also happened to be a previous victor and present mentor in the Hunger Games.

Beetee was middle-aged, short and lanky, with skin as charred as the fiery flakes that floated through the district's labs and factories. He adjusted his ill-fitting glasses atop his stumpy nose as he cleared his throat and said awkwardly, "Hello."

He didn't receive any response, not from the crowd or even from the wild-haired Wiress who was sitting in a metal chair behind him. She was his partner in every sense of the word, whether they were here at home or mentoring in the Capitol, but sometimes the circuit connecting their thoughts wasn't entirely closed. That was how it worked for most of the district, since picking up on others' feelings wasn't a matter of acting on a series of known coefficients. Communication had far too many variables for robots to sort through.

Not taking the lack of enthusiasm personally, Beetee continued, "Well, as I'm sure you are all aware, today marks the beginning of a new Hunger Games. I will now call on Capitol escort, Apollo Asteroid, to proceed with the reaping."

Right on cue, a young man with static hair took Beetee's place at the front of the stage and said, "Happy Hunger Games!" Apollo wore a dark pea coat with the collar open so that it hid his neck like a turtle, and his appearance made his voice sound much squeakier than it really was.

Soon, a video was airing on a screen that was let loose from the top of the clock tower, and everyone's eyes were transfixed. This was the district's way of pretending to watch, staring at the screen blankly as their minds wandered across the lot. Some of them were ahead of the game, thinking of the piles of homework that would need to be done assuming their names weren't called in just a few minutes, or of the various things in their parents' factories that needed fixing, that _always_ needed fixing. Other minds were still stuck in the past, revisiting the walk they had taken to get here, tapping their feet against the shadow-cast sidewalks beside skyline buildings. Three was the most city-like of all thirteen districts in Panem (with the exception of the Capitol, of course), brightly lit and intimidatingly present.

Once the short film ended and Apollo was back at the microphone, the mass of eyes refocused their attention and opened their ears to listen. The escort was saying something about the strength of a battery, an attempt to bring about some sense of district pride amongst three's people, but it didn't work. Straight faces remained still across the teenagers as well as the families that lined the perimeter of the square as Apollo approached a glass bowl filled with shards of paper, picked one out without bothering to mix them, and said, "This year's female tribute is Blaize Dusk!"

People clapped, yet again in flawless unison. No one screamed or cried or tried to volunteer in her place, though plenty of people knew the girl who'd just been called to the stage. She was sixteen and scrutinizing, left-brained and analytical, smart and strong. She'd been top of her class since pre-school, never having lost focus even through her parents' divorce and her father's subsequent disappearance, not even through her mother's accidental death and her subsequent insomnia. She was fearless, for she'd already faced her fears, but now it looked as if there might be worse fears left to face.

Blaize climbed the stairs onto the stage without any hop in her step, though her shaking legs were hardly representative of her toned body that was obviously well in-shape. Her golden waves of hair were pinned back at the sides and flowing down her neck like the subtle white-caps of a forest river, and as she turned to face the front, it was clear that her blue eyes were even more watery than her sandy-freckled skin. She was covered in water, but what most people didn't realize was that underneath, there was only fire in her veins.

After Apollo directed her to a spot in the middle of the stage, Blaize scanned the crowd for a pair of sky blue eyes, but all she could see was a boy shuffling out through the back of the square, already running as far away as he could get without bothering to wait for the male tribute to be announced.

He wouldn't have had to wait very long, though, since Apollo called out the next name only seconds later. "This year's male tribute is Milo Suki!"

Once again, there were claps instead of screams. Like Blaize, Milo was one of the students who was always named with high honors and distinctions, but he wasn't nearly as competitive about it as Blaize could be. He was a gentleman, thankful to be a part of a community that he hadn't in fact been born into, even during times such as this, when it didn't appear as though there was all that much to be thankful for.

Milo was what District 3 referred to as a 'recruit', which was just another word for immigrant. He came from some foreign land in the east, a place that Panem never let its citizens learn about, moving here with his family when his parents were asked to head a highly-anticipated research project that was being hosted in the district. His brother, Naoya, who was infamous for the mark he'd left at the area's best school, was now part of the research team alongside his parents, and Milo was scheduled to join them at the end of the year. Of course, now there might not be an end of the year.

Milo tried to push those thoughts aside as he took his place on stage beside Blaize. He was nothing if not hopeful, and he'd heard of Blaize before. He knew how hard she worked, which must be a sign of intense ambition and drive. Milo had morals that he already knew he wouldn't be willing to compromise, but perhaps she would? So long as their plans coincided, they could prove to be a powerful team. Together, they might have a shot.

His parents looked as though they were thinking the same thing as Milo found them waving up at the stage. They had always been slightly cold, their black hair and slit eyes unwilling to let any light in, but Milo had never paid this any mind. He had enough heart for his whole family, and so they must have known that he would find a way to return to them.

Finding the confidence to turn away, Milo shifted his eyes from his family to Blaize, who was looking him up and down with pursed lips. He laughed, because he was about to do the same to her, and offered his hand for her to shake. She took it firmly in hers, ignoring the small electric shock that ran through her skin at his touch as Apollo came up from behind and said, "Your tributes for the Sixty-Ninth annual Hunger Games, everyone! Let the lightning strike again!"

More clapping ensued as the clock tower chimed and the anthem of Panem swept across the square. Though neither of them were fans of the melody, both Blaize and Milo found themselves closing their eyes to listen as they hummed along, Blaize an impressive violin and Milo a steady cello.

This time it was Blaize's turn to smile at their similarities, and so before she and Milo were dragged inside by the Capitol's Peacekeepers, she looked into his black eyes and whispered, "May the best man win."

Milo nodded, but they both knew that these games weren't only about winning. They each had their own goals that had already been set. One of them was going to play fairly and the other was going to go out with a fight, but both would have their voice heard. That way, even if they ended up dead, at least their deaths would have a purpose. After all, these tributes may not have had the best luck, but they did know a thing or two about timing. In fact, they were strategists, and so they weren't just going to _play _the Hunger Games. They were going to control them.

* * *

**District 4**

Far away from the pollution created by the rest of Panem, the waters of District 4 were shockingly clear. From a boat, one could see all the way down to the ocean floor, which was littered with seaweed and swimming with fish. Four's people appreciated the simple beauty of their water, so they made it their law to keep it clean. All of their fishing gear was crafted from natural materials, untainted by man-made substances, and even their boats were powered by the muscles of man rather than engines.

The reason the ocean was so clean was thanks to routine, which was perhaps the most important aspect of life in District 4. No one ever did anything out of the ordinary, for fear of creating unnecessary ripples in the beautiful blue. Every move made or step taken was governed by the unspoken guidelines put into place by the commanding sea. That was why no one argued when the time came for two of their children to be shipped off to the unknown waters of the Capitol and dragged into the deathly rapids of the Hunger Games. Not even the children who were reaped tried to protest, since they had been taught from a young age to accept their fate quietly rather than try to fight against a tidal wave.

It was still bright and early when people from all over the fishing district began to assemble at the end of the pier. Like a school of fish, they grouped together effortlessly and glided over to the Justice Building, the border of them comprised of teenagers whispering private words of fear and anxiety to one another. Beside them were the fathers who created a second layer of silence, for not a single word passed their sun-dried lips. They showed signs of understanding with the occasional pat on the tanned backs of their sons and daughters, the men's ropey muscles rippling each time they made contact with their children. Finally, the weaker fish, mothers in salt-encrusted dresses with tiny guppies clutched at their sides, populated the center of the school. The children were as solemn as their parents, showing fear through nothing but their watery eyes and gripping one another tightly, afraid one of their own might drop out of the school and into a net of despair.

The only thing that seemed to be in their favor on this dreaded day was the fresh ocean breeze, which blew gently toward the stage in front of the Justice Building, making it easier for them to advance and cooling them off from the already powerful sun's rays. By the time they reached the platform, a new current hit the school of fish in the form of the Peacekeepers, who began to roughly separate the children and teenagers from their families. The young, aged twelve to eighteen, were then organized by their age and roped off. As always, neither the children nor their families struggled against this current; this was one that the parents had no choice but to let their guppies fall into, and the children did not possess the strength to swim against it.

Not a word was spoken from the audience as the mayor walked onto the stage. He was an old seafarer like all the elders in the district, and had seen his share of violent storms. Each wrinkle etched across his face represented a pair of children he had had to send away without comment. Today he looked wearier than usual, but of course no one said anything about it. Instead, they waited and listened as his quiet and wispy voice announced the escort, who immediately swept them all away.

"Good morning, my sea-dwellers! As usual, it seems like the ocean breeze and the sun really does keep you young; you all look just like you did a year ago!" Wearing a ridiculously toothy grin, Dax Dirigible waved his manicured hands enthusiastically at the crowd. Every year, Dax tried to think of an ocean-related outfit he had not worn before, and today he had gone for ripples. Mesmerizing circles decorated his shiny, waterproof suit, and rather than being printed on the cerulean material, they had actually been stamped to create a life-like effect. On his feet were loafers that were covered in synthetic fish scales, and around his neck was a jaunty little sand-colored bowtie. His hair was aquamarine with streaks of gold that represented the reflection of the sun on the water, and his eyebrows were styled like waves on a windy day.

Even as the video depicting the war and the Dark Days played, the crowd did not budge. They simply watched with empty expressions, trying not to think of the probability of President Snow's voiceover being a lie. They maintained such expressionless expressions as Dax cheerfully spoke a few words before practically skipping over to the glass bowls that held the names of the children and saying, "As always, the lovely lady to represent our district shall be called upon first. And the female tribute for the Sixty-Ninth Annual Hunger Games is Kai Galen! Congratulations!"

A flat stone skipped across the crowd as all their heads turned to the bearer of this unfortunate name. The Galens were well known all over the district, as credit for discovering a way to use fossil fuel as a natural alternative to harmful gas could be given to the current head of this family. Kai, the youngest of two daughters at only thirteen, currently stood with a circle of her many friends, but her face gave none of her emotions away as she shook off the hands of her companions, held her head high, and began to make her way to the podium.

"Wait! WAIT! I'll take her place! I – I _VOLUNTEER_!"

Once again, heads whipped around, this time in the opposite direction. The one who had shouted such an absurd sentence was a girl no taller than Kai, yet she was standing with the older group of prospective tributes. On her face, which was so similar to Kai's, was not the district's characteristic deadpan look, but instead one filled with determination and without a trace of fear.

The sea of youth parted for her as she slowly advanced to the podium, the blazing aura emitting from her making up for her small stature. She stomped up the stairs, snatched the microphone from a dumbstruck Dax, and stated with a slight quiver in her melodic voice, "Mira Galen, the female tribute for District Four. And Kai, you stay right where you are."

Everyone turned again to look at Kai, who had frozen in her spot. The screams and protests came as the nature of the situation slowly settled in. The hands of Kai's numerous friends held her back and hugged her while salty tears streaked down her face. Meanwhile, Dax quickly tried to regain control of the situation, taking the microphone back from Mira and clearing his throat loudly.

"Well, that was certainly new! I'll bet my expensive, custom-made suit that that was your sister. Welcome aboard, Mira Galen, and I hope you enjoy the ride! Now, without further ado, I shall announce the male tribute."

No one was really paying attention as Dax called out the name Paz Bay and a skinny young man silently floated onto the stage. No one knew who Paz was, so no one cared. Far more intriguing was the fact that, for the first time in four's reaping history, someone had volunteered in the place of another. Dax Dirigible's ridiculous outfit had never been so appropriate for a reaping before, for someone had finally broken the routine that District 4 so valued, making their own rapids in waters that were perpetually calm.

"Well, folks, we have our tributes for this year's Hunger Games! Let us all wish good fortune to them, and may the tide stay forever high!" As soon as Dax finished speaking, Kai broke free from her friends and ran to the podium, trying to reach her sister before she was ushered into the Justice Building. Right behind her were her parents, who had easily gotten through the crowd as everyone had made way for them. However, they were too late; they only saw Mira from a distance as she whipped her head around and was shoved through the doors. Wondering if they would ever see her again, the three of them held onto each other, unable to speak but finding the strength to breathe as they pulled each other to the surface.

Mira caught a glimpse of them before Dax grabbed her arm and dragged her into the building, and to see her family together was all she needed. As her bravely held-back tears began to blur her vision, she swore that she would come back alive and would be in their arms once again. After all, in a world full of pollution, her love for her family had always been shockingly clear.

* * *

**District 5**

Trees no longer existed in District 5. They hadn't for a long time, and they probably would never be planted again. Replacing these trees were rows upon rows of solar panels, wiping away the forests of wood in order to create cities of steel. Families would have picnics under these structures and children would play epic games of hide and seek among them as older folk recounted stories about the days when lunch could be eaten under a leafy roof. Trees in the power district were something like a myth, a mere tale spun by the elders. In fact, the only time the younger generation ever even saw trees was on television during the Hunger Games, or in person as a tribute.

Today was reaping day and though it was still morning, the sun was high in the sky. All around the district, solar panels, the most cost-effective generators, were soaking up its powerful rays. Every family that was relatively well off had at least one of these solar fields in their name. Though usually mothers would sit outside in the fields when not at work, they could not do so today. They had to stay in to pamper their children and make them look presentable, for they would be broadcasted all over Panem using the energy their parents dutifully harvested.

One child, however, was not being fussed over in the shade of his home. Kesler Kite was barely a child, now sixteen years old and on his way to becoming a man, with sun-bleached, dirty blonde hair that was perfectly windswept and messy. On his face was a ruminant expression, and on his well-toned body were carefully dry-cleaned, pressed, and expensive-looking clothes. They came from the tremendous wealth his father gained from ownership of vast solar panel fields, all of the largest ones in the entire district.

Now, Kesler was sitting in one of the many Kite fields, like he would as a young child with his late mother, staring out at the solar panels that would soon be his. Observing them as they absorbed the sun's beams had been a pastime of his since childhood, for he had always been intrigued by the immense power they possessed. He admired the way they took energy from something as almighty as the sun and converted it to fit their own use. Striving to be like these contraptions, Kesler had grown up to be a controlling and power-hungry young man. He felt no need to have true friends, just mere acquaintances and servants to suck power out of and use for his needs. Hence why he sat alone, even on this day when everyone else was trying to stick together.

For the past four years, the boy had never worried about being reaped, and he certainly wasn't about to now. Even as a twelve year-old tyke, he had fully understood the huge amount of influence and power his father held over District 5. He admired his father, who drew strength from those around him and used it to benefit himself. The people would whisper about Patrick Kite and their family, spreading rumors that they held more authority than the mayor's family, that they had more money than both District 12 and 13 combined, and that Patrick was a personal acquaintance of President Snow. The last two, of course, were ridiculous and fictitious, but Kesler liked to hear of his family's power, whether it was true or not. Either way, he knew his name was guaranteed to be safe from the escort's perfectly sculpted fingertips.

From the position of the sun, the blond boy could tell that it was time for him to make his way to the Justice Building. Kesler debated looking for his father, but came to the conclusion that he would probably already be gone. His dad didn't love him and he knew it; he was seen as nothing but the heir to his father's fields and fortune. So instead of searching for him, Kesler set out to find his younger sister, who received even less affection from their father. Patrick Kite still believed that it was Katie's fault that his wife was dead, for she had passed away during childbirth.

As expected, Kesler found Katie in her room, sitting on her bed and not making a sound. Unlike the other girls, Katie didn't care much for looking pretty and drawing attention; the absence of a mother was clear in her choice of shabby attire and her long, tangled hair. Kesler pitied his sister, the only person he actually cared for and never attempted to manipulate. He sat down on the bed next to her, awkwardly patting her shoulder, and told her, "Kate, it's time to go. It's almost ten o'clock." She nodded, still no words passing her lips, and allowed her brother to lead her out the door and into his car.

The Kite home was in the center of District 5, so the Justice Building was only a five-minute drive away. Carefully parking his car in the immeasurably large lot, Kesler began walking to the registration table with Katie right beside him. He smirked as the other children stared and whispered about the siblings, for he knew they were staring and whispering in awe at the power they and their name held. After having their fingers pricked, Kesler and Katie were separated into their respective age groups. He watched her go, not at all worried that she would be reaped. She was, after all, a Kite.

Being a good head taller than his fellow sixteen year olds, Kesler had a clear view of the area where the parents stood. Many of the mothers and older sisters were already sobbing, hanging on to their husbands or fathers. As usual, his father was standing to the side with a group of important-looking men. None of them seemed at all disturbed by the event taking place, and they did not even watch the video of the Dark Days when it began playing. Only when the escort from the Capitol stepped up to the plate did they bring their hands together in applause.

"Hello, my wonderful power producers! I hope you all had a good night's sleep and are ready to look top-notch on the televisions that you yourselves bring life to!" As usual, Nero Cord was obnoxious and over-the-top. He was perfectly round, one of the only Capitol escorts that was overweight. Six tufts of hair stuck out of his bulbous head, and each was dyed a different fluorescent color. Jabbed in his pierced ears were gigantic sun-shaped earrings, showing his district spirit, and his enormous suit was patterned like the tops of a solar panel, gleaming when the light hit it. Overall, the image was rather garish and disgusting, and the children were having a difficult time keeping their blinded eyes on him.

"Like it has always been done, I shall announce the female tribute first! And the winner is Pippa Meridian! Can I have a round of applause, please? Thank you, thank you!"

They did what they were told, afraid of what this massive monster would do to them if they didn't, and many of them actually clapped willingly. Pippa Meridian was well known amongst her peers as the loudest child in the entire district; the girl just could not shut up about herself. She was severely disliked by most of the girls for her bratty ways, and even the boys didn't think her beauty was worth the banter. The only reason Kesler, who didn't attend school with her, knew who she was was thanks of her last name, for the Meridians were nearly as wealthy as the Kites.

However, not everyone was relieved and hateful. A large group of people standing in the back were actually sobbing and screaming. Even the little ones, who weren't entirely sure what had just occurred, had large tears dripping down their cherubic faces as they clung onto their mothers' legs.

Everyone watched as a shocked Pippa was dragged onto the stage and dropped right beside the fat escort. Cord gave her what was meant to be an encouraging slap on the back before he began to inch toward the bowl holding the names of the males. Kesler watched as the pudgy, colorfully-manicured hand swirled the scraps of paper round and round. Finally, the sausages wrapped themselves around a name and slowly drew it out.

"The male to be given the honor of representing District Five is none other than Kesler Kite! Congratulations, young man!"

All Kesler heard was a scream coming from the fourteens where Katie stood, and a buzzing coming from the children who slowly started to clap. He felt light-headed, but would not allow himself to be hauled onto the stage like some coward. With long, smooth strides, he parted the crowd, no one blocking his path or walking up to comfort him. As he passed by Katie, he stared into her distressed face, hoping to convey the message that she should stop crying or she would come off as weak. Trying to follow this message himself, he refused to make any physical contact with her.

After he stepped onto the stage, Kesler blocked everything out. He felt as if he was the sun and everyone else had become solar panels, like they were slowly sucking the energy out of him with every second that passed. He felt as if he had become the trees that he had only ever heard stories about, cut down to make room for the Capitol's latest craze. He felt weak, even though he knew that he had to stay strong. That's what made him promise himself that he would play these Games like he had lived his life, absorbing the powerful rays of sunlight that the other tributes emitted and converting them for his own use.

* * *

**District 6**

District 6 had no airport. There were factories and warehouses filled to the brim with airplane parts: long and giant wings, turbine engines, and entire fuselages. There were even old aircraft carriers from the military housing helicopters and hovercrafts. But there was no airport, no runway... no chance of escape.

The closest thing it had to such a wide open space as a runway was the main, asphalt road that ran from the district's center to the outlying municipal square. Six was one of the only districts that hadn't in fact been built _around_ its Justice Building, but rather had been creeping farther and farther away from it. This meant that every year on reaping day, the men and their families would have to actually use one of the cars from the various auto-shops to drive a good ten miles to the square, where they'd all park and then fold the cars back up until they were the size of suitcases and leave them around the back of the Justice Building.

Men would then walk their wives and children around the block and direct their kids to one of the registration tables. Here, there was a table on each side of the square, and unlike the other districts, there wasn't one for the boys and one for the girls. Instead, one table was reserved for children whose fathers worked as mechanical engineers, while the other was meant for those with family repair shops. That's how it had always been in District 6: people were either educated enough to design for the Capitol, or they were merely used as oil rags to clean up the Capitol's spills.

The boys tended to follow in their fathers' footsteps, so the dividing line was hardly ever crossed. Girls, on the other hand, usually grew into secretaries that handled all the paperwork for their husbands' companies. Just about every job in the district was fairly dull, but not many people complained. They all knew that it could be far worse. After all, District 6 was a middle district, meaning that every district below it – seven through thirteen – had even harder work for even lesser pay.

On this year's reaping day, the families filed into the square as usual, most of them arriving early to watch the hovercraft fly in and drop off the district's escort, which this year was somebody new. Still, none of the kids or their parents were watching to see a fresh face from the Capitol; they were looking to the sky to catch a glimpse of the enormous hunk of steel that they had once made, but that none of them had ever seen take off.

The hovercraft disappeared quickly, though, and the mayor came out of the Justice Building just as soon as it was gone. He walked beside a dark-skinned woman with legs as long as an eagle's cry and hair wrapped in a slick tail atop her head. Her clothes were tight but stretchy, and her arched-back shoulders accentuated her chest. She squinted at her audience with shimmering, golden eyes as the mayor introduced her, announcing her name to be Zephyra Wing.

All were too focused on their curiosity to clap as the escort took the microphone. "Welcome," she said with a one-dimensional, almost robotic, voice. "Thank you all for having me on this pinnacle day." Then the Dark Days video started on the screen behind her, surprising the crowd because Zephyra hadn't warned them it was coming.

By the time the audio cut, Zephyra was already pulling out a name from a punch bowl, from which she read in the same lethargic voice she'd used before, "The female tribute representing District 6 in the this year's Hunger Games is Sparrow Lark." There was no rise in volume with her announcement, no excitement or command. She was simply stating a fact.

But for the girl whose name had been called, there was no apathy to be seen. People were crying within seconds, from her group of friends standing beside her toward the front, to the large family in the back that was already desperate to point their youngest member home.

Sparrow spent what was surely days walking away from all the girls whose tears had stained her brand new shirt. She could still hear their loud, Jewish screams in her ear by the time she made it to the walkway that led to the stage. Once there, she was already buried deep within her own wide-eyed trance, but something inside her – love, maybe, or perhaps just instinct – sent a signal to her brain to turn her head around so that she might spot her family.

They were directly behind her, standing on the outskirts of the engineer group, their tanned faces grief-stricken and barely hopeful. Sparrow's mother and father were there, crying out for their favorite child, their smart, good little girl – the miracle they'd never intended to make. Her older siblings were also staring back at her: her brother who'd never finished school with his head down, knowing that this should have been him, and her sister looking on helplessly, trying to come up with some way to protect Sparrow from imminent tragedy.

Sparrow looked back at them for such a long time that she stood frozen to the ground, and after a few minutes, the Peacekeepers had to step in and carry her tiny body up the steps and onto the stage. They put her down gently beside Zephyra, who looked upon Sparrow and commented, "Why, you couldn't be over ninety pounds soaking wet."

It was true. Sparrow was short and thin, even for a thirteen year-old, and her dark, dart-like eyes were as hollow as the model fighter jets that hung from the ceiling in her father's office. She stood completely still as Zephyra called out the next name, this time announcing a boy with little to no friends that could cry over him.

"The male tribute is Sam Berg," she said. Sparrow's trance subsided upon hearing the name, for she knew this boy, if not personally then at least from hearsay. People spoke of him often, and Sparrow remembered the stories well if only because her parents were adamant about raising her differently.

The Bergs were perhaps the richest family in the district, and Sam was an only child who had no desire to carry on his father's legacy. He was a spoiled rotten young teenager who hadn't ever bothered with school, and the price to pay for his lack of interest was the label of a social outcast. He spoke to no one, and no one spoke to him.

There were plenty of stares and pointed fingers as Sam made his way to the front. He too needed the help of Peacekeepers to get him atop the stage, for it seemed as though he didn't understand what was going on. "Wait, was that my name?" he kept repeating with confusion, bewildered as to what had just happened and all that was about to happen.

"W-what do I do?" he asked Sparrow as they shook hands. "Am I supposed to know how to do this?" He wouldn't stop asking questions, shaking his long, heavy head while shrugging his shoulders and flailing his lanky arms around.

Neither Sparrow nor Zephyra paid any attention, the former still in shock while the latter took the microphone once more and said with perfect annunciation and not a speck of pity, "Congratulations to this year's tributes. May each of them travel far and wide."

Everything that followed was a blur: the procession back to the parking lot, the Lark family's shoves through the crowds, the tributes being hauled into the Justice Building and the doors slamming shut. They were locked away within seconds, and there was nowhere else to go. There was no airport, and no planes that could fly them far away from here. There was only a scared boy who'd long since fallen from his nest, and a little bird with no wings. No matter how many questions Sam asked or who rushed inside to save Sparrow, they would never be able to escape.

* * *

**District 7**

There was snow on the ground. It was coming from everywhere: the cloudy sky, the sharp wind, the shaking pines. The great north had turned white once more, a signal to the world that the cold was on its way home. Because this was where all things crisp and all things frozen truly lived. These were the mountains, separated by rolling hills and covered in tall trees that only existed to one day be cut down. Today, the day the snow returned, marked the beginning of the logging season, a time when trees would be chopped at their roots and shipped off to the Capitol. But the trees wouldn't be alone; two children would be going with them.

It was midday when the crowd gathered on the summit of Sik Mountain, the highest peak in all of District 7. This was where the Justice Building had been nailed into a lime stone cliff that was tall enough to touch the clouds, the only spot in a circular expanse of over 100,000 square miles that wasn't being used for the foliage.

People had gathered from all over the district: lumberjacks and basket-weavers, most of whom had never seen each other before. They arrived in small packs, bunches of families that made up their own miniature tribes, with the elders dressed in their finest cotton clothes and standing just below the summit, where their faces could be hidden in the surrounding woods. Their children – their kin – were herded out onto the edge of the cliff, directed to stand as close to the fence of Peacekeepers as they could so that everyone would fit.

The snow made it difficult for any of the teenagers to show much of themselves, for the young ones were huddled together, wearing thick fur coats around their wind-blown hair as they shivered for warmth. The older ones, who had been corralled to the back of the group, all wore leather boots beneath wool parkas, if only to hide their bodies that had been covered in scars, thanks to neighboring needles and sharpened saws. These girls and boys were the ones who should be scared, for they had far greater chances of their names being called than the young kids in front of them. Still, none of them looked at all fearful; they only seemed cold, their rosy cheeks and icy eyes as distant as the far-off coastline.

With teeth too busy chattering for anyone to even attempt to speak, the mountain-top was completely silent but for the hissing wind. That wind, however, seemed to grow louder and louder as each second passed, and soon it was raging through everyone's ears, growing so harsh that they failed to hear the door of the Justice Building open and close, nor the tap of the microphone atop a newly varnished podium, nor the sound of the mayor's voice as he introduced District 7's escort.

But by the time Cedar Archwood took the mayor's place, the wind subsided as if ordered to, and all attention was drawn forward. Cedar had been hired by the Capitol to travel to District 7 every year, and for some reason he thought that meant he had to arrive in the lumber district clad in a long trench coat with a fresh, scruffy beard. His attempt at showing district spirit might have been appreciated had it not been for the simple fact that over his years of working for the Hunger Games, he had become a symbol of hate to a considerable portion of Panem. To the people of District 7, Cedar was the man who called out the names, and so that made him responsible for their children's deaths.

It was still quiet when Cedar introduced himself, but nobody seemed to listen to either him or the voice of President Snow as the latter narrated the short video about the Dark Days. By now, everybody knew the story, and most of them even knew that it wasn't entirely true. The only thing actually worth knowing was that no matter how hard they tried, none of them would ever know what had really happened in the war of Panem.

Once the film ended, Cedar addressed the district once more and said, "Now, it is time to call on two _privileged_ individuals who will represent District 7 in the Sixty-Ninth annual Hunger Games! And remember, even when branches break, a forest stands tall."

While most of the onlookers made no response to Cedar's announcement, some of the older kids cheered in their low, husky voices. There were a fair few families who supported the Games, even a number of children who hoped to one day be picked as tributes, either because they wanted to prove their tremendous strength, or, more commonly, because they longed to see the sun at least once in their lifetime.

As faces turned away and buried themselves in hoods and shoulders, and as hands clasped around other hands, Cedar walked to the left side of the stage to where a small, glass bowl was seated atop a wooden table. He stuck one of his giant hands inside and pulled out a piece of paper – paper that had been provided by the trees that used to grow in this very square – and read out the name of this year's female tribute.

"Timber Holt!" he called. Sighs of relief washed over the other girls while a large young woman made her way from the back of the group and stomped onto the stage. She greeted Cedar with fierce brown eyes and a firm handshake before turning back to the crowd. Though she hadn't been one of the ones who'd cheered before, she also didn't look sad to have been called. She only looked angry.

Timber was almost as wide as she was tall, but somehow her face still seemed pointed. Her long, straight hair was tinted red like bloody mud, and her eyes were sharp and stumpy. She didn't shed a single tear as she looked over everyone, but she did seem rather pressed to find somebody.

Eventually, her eyes locked on the tree-line to her right, where an older man hairier than a grizzly was nodding at his daughter with a perfectly straight face. He too looked angry, but with the creases and wrinkles that controlled his expression, it would be hard for him to look anything but vengeful.

While Timber and her father conversed silently from across the peak, Cedar walked over to the other side of the stage to announce the male tribute. He was quick to pick a piece of paper this time, and his voice was loud and clear as he yelled, "Waldo White!"

There was no relief. No one was selfish enough to feel grateful or lucky upon hearing this name. The Whites were a family that lived only a mile down the side of the mountain, and they handled most of the work around the summit. Their boy was popular amongst the other kids, for he was friendly and funny, and he knew how to turn a chill into a fever.

Waldo took a long while to make it to the stage from the very last line filled with the eldest prospective tributes, for he stopped to hug a number of kids on his way there. Other boys patted his back and wished him luck, while girls kissed his cheek and ran hands through his overgrown, wavy hair. Once he passed them, they started to clap, and soon the applause was echoed across the entire district.

He made one last stop near the middle of the crowd, where Waldo ignored the Peacekeepers and walked straight into the mass of females, running to his younger sister and taking her into his arms one last time. "Don't you dare cry, Devi," he whispered to her, so close to her ear that no one around them would be able to overhear.

The sixteen year-old girl had light brown hair that matched her brother's, as well as the same hazel eyes that she'd closed tight to keep from watering. "I won't," she promised Waldo.

"See you later, alligator," Waldo said as he walked away.

Though he was already too far to hear, Devi smiled sadly and let a small chuckle escape her lips. She hadn't said it in years, not since she and her brother had left school to start working in the woods, and so she was happy to finally have a reason to whisper, "In a while, crocodile."

Even Timber appeared to feel a rush of pain upon greeting Waldo on the stage. Her handshake was gentler with him than it had been with Cedar. She looked him right in the eye, her way of saying that he could trust her, and he reciprocated the gesture.

They turned to the crowd in unison as the wind blew across the district once more. The snow was falling heavily now, and as Cedar restated his signature line, a century-old pine tree standing just behind the mass of people, directly across from the podium, dropped to the ground.

It was District 7's tradition to mark reaping day with the beginning of logging season. The people here didn't believe in standing tall like the Capitol did. Their fate had been sealed long ago, and today they celebrated the sealing of two new fates. Today, reaping day, marked the beginning of the Hunger Games, a time when a young girl and boy would be uprooted from their home and shipped off to the Capitol. But Timber and Waldo wouldn't be alone; their trees, their wood, their shelter, would be going with them.

* * *

**District 8**

_A hero is born among a hundred, a wise man is found among a thousand, but an accomplished one may not be found even among a hundred thousand men, _read the young Plato Clay. He'd been studying the words of his namesake since he'd been old enough to read, and he agreed with every word of the ancient philosopher.

Plato, who lived primarily in the attic above his parents' cotton mill, felt like a lonely ant in a giant farm. Though he worked hard day in and day out, filling his mind with knowledge and composing music on his late grandfather's guitar, he walked the streets of District 8 utterly unseen. He may not have been very accomplished as of yet, but he was only fifteen, and he already knew far more than his peers. He could be a hero, he really could. After all, he was already a wise man. People would have known that if they had ever bothered to listen.

Sighing to himself, Plato closed his torn copy of The Republic and climbed down the ladder that led into the aisles of spinning machinery, most of which had been turned off for the 'holiday'. He looked around for his aging parents, but they were nowhere to be found. They'd probably left already, assuming that Plato would have slipped out this morning to meet with friends before the reaping. Little did they know, Plato didn't exactly have very many friends he could meet with.

For a moment, Plato contemplated the idea of making himself some lunch, but he decided against it when he figured that his mother could make him a sandwich when they returned. So, Plato ignored his growling stomach that flowed up and over his home-made pants ever so slightly, locking up the factory as he set off for the Justice Building.

Being that he'd been eligible to be reaped for the last three years, Plato was fully aware of what he was about to walk into. He understood the odds, but he had complete faith that he would not be chosen as this year's tribute. After all, karma would never do such a thing to a poor boy like him. It was Plato's destiny to one day become a hero, and so he figured that he was safe from death until some heroic task to complete was presented to him.

Other kids, however, did not seem to feel the same way. It was times like these that Plato cursed the heavens for birthing him with such keen observational skills. He couldn't stand the sight of all the sobbing children and blubbering parents as they crept outside their factories and shops and were corralled by Peacekeepers into the herd of even more sobbing children and blubbering parents that stood in the town center.

Of course, Plato couldn't exactly blame them for being so upset. Just as his idol had said, there could only be one hero among a hundred commoners. And Plato had learned long ago that his unique qualities were nothing to fret about, for they meant that he was a hero – a golden thread just waiting to escape from this blanket of commoners. And those commoners... well, they couldn't very well be expected to understand the working of such high a power when they themselves were so low within the Great Chain of Being that they were sinking beneath the dirt.

Plato laughed at his own thoughts, for he amused himself so often, before he winced at the touch of a needle to his finger. After his blood was drawn at the registration table, he was ordered to a middle line of boys who were busy wiping their faces to hide their obvious tears. The other boys scooted as far away from Plato as they could get, but Plato failed to notice their avoidance as he stretched his feet to look for his parents amongst the crowd.

The families had all aligned themselves behind their children, and Plato was far too short to see past either his unruly black bangs or the older boys that blocked his view. He didn't have much time to worry anyway, though, since the Dark Days video was over in a matter of minutes, and soon the district's escort had taken center stage.

"Hello everyone," said Denim Blue with a smirk and a wink at his audience. He was tall and sultry with hair that matched his name, and most of the district scoffed upon seeing him. They all claimed that Denim was a Caesar Flickerman wannabe, for his fashion and demeanor were eerily similar to the presenter who hosted the interviews of Hunger Games tributes every year. Even so, Plato couldn't disagree more. Both Caesar and Denim were fabulous, and Plato wasn't about to complain about being blessed with the presence of two whimsy personalities every year when there were so few the rest of the time.

After a poignantly brief speech delivered by Denim, he brought the district's two mentors to the front of the stage to pick out the names of the next tributes. It was a tradition unique to District 8 to involve previous winners in the reaping ceremony, and Plato had always thought that it was a nice touch to an otherwise dull event.

The elderly Woof and beautiful Cecelia, the latter glowing with pride for her victory and empathy for her district's people, stepped forward graciously and shook Denim's hand before taking their places at the boys' and girls' bowl, respectively. Cecelia went first for the girls, and as she drew a name out of the glass, the sobs from the crowds grew weaker and more agitated.

"This year's female representative for District Eight is a Miss Peggy Thimble," said Cecelia in a voice that was just barely audible, even for somebody with as tuned ears as Plato.

Plato's eyes searched the crowd once more, this time looking for the tribute, and he followed the others' gazes to see one of the boys who'd previously been blocking his view march over to a girl grouped in the line of seventeen year-olds. The boy was whimpering uncontrollably and pulled the dark-skinned, slightly curvy Peggy into a tight embrace, seemingly unable to let go of her.

Peggy was the one who finally pulled away from the boy after one last kiss and calmed him down before making her way to the stage. Hundreds of pitiful eyes were on her as she hugged Cecelia and faced the crowd, but Plato merely rolled his. If anything, this girl only affirmed his belief that everyone in this district was completely hopeless.

Of course, Plato's theory was proven wrong when he picked up a voice coming from the stage that asked Woof as he was about to pick a boy's name, "Actually, would I be able to say something first?"

Plato looked back up at this, curious to see what Peggy was doing. Tributes were usually in far too much shock to utter a single word after being reaped, but Peggy seemed rather stable as she took the microphone and addressed everyone to say, "Thank you. Thank you for your tears, but please don't waste them on me. We watch friends and family die in these Games every year, and I could easily be one of those people. But until that day comes, I have no reason to cry, and neither do any of you. I have lived a fantastic life, so please don't look at me like it's about to end. We can't think like that. We can't stop living now."

Peggy had captured the attention of every person in the district, and Plato knew that she'd also be captivating most of the Capitol right about now. Could he possibly be witnessing an act of heroism right before his eyes? He thought about such as Peggy continued.

She was looking to somebody specific this time, the boy who'd kissed her after her name had been called, and said, "I will never stop loving the people in this district, and I promise that I will try my best to return to my parents, to my little brother, Magan, and to you. I will return to you, Thread. I'll find a way."

Plato's skepticism resurfaced at that. Though the rest of the district clapped in admiration, he just couldn't buy into Peggy's proclamation of love to this Thread character. Love was a selfish thing to live for at the hands of free knowledge. Still, Plato was willing to give Peggy the benefit of the doubt. Her childish cheeks and squinting eyes weren't very heroic after all, but at least they were kind.

Peggy passed the microphone back to Woof with a smile and a nod, and Cecelia held onto her hand affectionately as they waited for the next tribute to be called. Plato was in the middle of a yawn when Woof spoke slowly into the microphone with his yearly stutter, "It seems that the m-male tribute is a Mister... Plat-to Clay."

Unlike Peggy, Plato did go into a state of shock. He had to be dragged onto the stage by a burly Peacekeeper, for his mind was wandering so much that he had no energy to move. This couldn't be it, could it? This wasn't the heroic task he'd been waiting for. Wise men weren't built for battle; Plato couldn't do this! He couldn't be a tribute in the Hunger Games.

But none of his worries mattered. Nobody even saw him as he stood beside Peggy and shook her hand. Plato was a lonely ant in a giant farm, and he was nothing next to the queen that Peggy had just become. Amidst hundreds of people, Plato couldn't be the hero after Peggy had already claimed the title for herself. They weren't ever going to listen to him, because they'd already listened to her. They would never know that _he_ was the true wise man, that _he _was the hero. Worst of all, Plato was still a poor boy of only fifteen. He'd never accomplished anything before, and now he never would.

* * *

**District 9**

The distance stood undiscovered. Fields of wheat, barley, or grain were wide and flat and reached as far as the horizon. What lay beyond the golden land was a mystery – a mystery that District 9 had yet to solve. A fair few had in fact left these lands, abandoned their fields to search for a new world, but none of them had returned. In sixty-eight years with over a hundred tributes reaped, not a single one had survived to tell the tale.

It was ironic, really, because all anyone in the district wanted to do was share their stories. Most of them descended from a race of bossy bread-makers from across the sea; the people of District 9 were loud-mouthed, hands-on, and sociable. They lived in groups of extended families, each responsible for their own granary, and worked hard all day so that they could laugh harder all night.

Most everyone knew somebody who had died in the Hunger Games, usually a sibling or a child, and rarely, a parent. It was a fate that they had all grown accustomed to, and because none of them had it any worse or better than the others, they had no reason to feel pity. Losing a loved one was merely a fact of life, and one could only be considered lucky if they didn't lose themselves.

That was the motto used around this time of year for the Moon family, a relatively well-off group of packagers who resided in the loft atop their market. Today, the two Moon girls were on their own to get to the reaping, for their parents had left early that morning to help set up for the event.

"Come on, Corn Kernel! We're going to be _late_," yelled the eldest daughter, Astrea, who was always put in charge even though her sister never followed any orders.

Tori came pounding down the stairs and into the shop with steps full of defiance. She slammed the front door on her way out, screaming back, "Aren't you coming? I thought you said we were in a hurry!"

Astrea rolled her eyes at the scene. She hated her sister in every possible way, even though she knew Tori took after her. They were both around average height with naturally straight brown hair and dark eyes, all of Tori's features slightly lighter than Astrea's, with the exception of her blackened heart.

Tori wasn't gone for long before she was gone for good. She had friends to catch up with, self-conscious girls that copied her every move and desperate boys who followed her around like attention-starved puppies. Astrea knew all about them, for she had the same group of friends, only hers were all two years older.

In the row of sixteen year-olds, Beatrice and Mia waved for Astrea to join them, and she happily obliged. From across the lot, which consisted of a single mowed field not far from town, a boy named Ben was winking at Astrea, but she shook her head at him. Ben had wanted her for years, just like ten other boys in her class, but Astrea had never given in. She was waiting for somebody who'd give her something to talk about. She was waiting to find a boy she could share her story with.

"You'd think she would have learned to stop chowing down the pasta by now," Beatrice mumbled from beside Astrea. She was commenting on the mayor, who'd stepped out from the Justice Building in a sad-looking suit that hugged her rolls of fat like the factory feeders that were always about to burst.

Astrea laughed and added, "I think the time for saving is long past. There's no going back now."

Luckily, the mayor didn't have to endure any further embarrassment, for she was quickly replaced by Hayl Storm, the stunning, lanky beauty that worked for the Capitol as the District 9 escort.

It took a while for everyone to quiet down, but eventually Hayl accomplished the impossible and gained the audience's attention. Of course, it didn't last through the video on the Dark Days, during which most people shouted in anger or spat in outrage. None of them liked how much control the Capitol had gained, and they weren't afraid to show it.

"Please, everyone, pipe down!" Hayl called after the film ended. She was lucky to be so obviously beautiful, because the men wouldn't listen to her for a minute if she wasn't. "Before I read the names, I would like to remind you all of the rules of the Games."

She went on to describe the nature of the Games, starting with the reaping, then the tribute parade, training, and interviews, and ending with the arena. There were escorts, Gamemakers, and sponsors, but District 9 was unique in that it had no mentors for its tributes. Instead of being trained by previous winners of the Games, tributes from nine had to train alone, and sponsor gifts were chosen by an assigned Gamemaker, assuming the tributes survived past the first few days, which was admittedly unlikely. It gave tributes an enormous disadvantage going into the Games, but the Capitol didn't seem to mind. After all, underdogs were always easier to root for than frontrunners.

At the climax of her speech, Hayl walked over to raffle bowl and shook it a few times before pulling out a paper and stating a girl's name. "Astrea Moon!" she called, and noise covered the field once more.

The loudest voice came from Tori, who was being held back by her friends as she tried to leap from the crowd. Somewhere in the wings, Astrea's parents were banging their fists and cursing at whoever stood closest to them, while Astrea tried to take in the prolonged babbling of her two best friends as they hugged her goodbye.

Astrea wasn't quite sure how she made it onto the stage, but soon that was where she was. It felt lonely up there, with just Hayl standing a few feet away and the mayor sitting behind her. She was used to being surrounded by people, and she'd never realized how frightening it was to be alone.

"Trenne Alfredo!" Hayl called the next name. Astrea had barely noticed the escort shake the boys' bowl, and she was surprised that anyone could have heard the anno0uncement above all the ruckus.

There was mad gesticulation throughout the air, and Astrea had the perfect view of it all. In the middle of the crowd, Trenne was making his way to the stage with a model-like strut to his walk, somehow managing to turn all the screams and punches into cheers and claps. He was big and black with a smile as white as flour, and Astrea had seen him out in the fields before. He wasn't as well off as the townsfolk, so his name must have been in the reaping a good twenty times or so, but he acted as if none of it mattered. He wasn't lucky to have been reaped, but he was good at reminding everyone that he wasn't unlucky either.

Trenne jumped onto the stage after winking to a girl in the crowd who must have been his younger sister, and he shook Astrea's hand with so much energy that it even made her smile. As she looked at Trenne in his hand-made suit and top-hat that were aimed at making fun of the Capitol's deranged idea of fashion, Astrea wondered what was going to happen to them.

Would they work together as they discovered the new world they were about to encounter? Would they solve the mystery that lay beyond the horizon? Would they be a part of somebody else's story, or would they get to live their own? And if they did take center stage in a far-off land, would they ever be able to share that story? Would they survive to tell the tale?

* * *

**District 10**

Sticking out like a sore thumb amongst the many barns that were scattered all over the rich grounds of District 10 was a mansion. Built with bright red bricks that seemed like they were casted yesterday and with a freshly green front lawn, this gigantic establishment was certainly out of place. It towered over any ranch or homestead within sight, casting shadows upon the fields and animals surrounding it.

Today, two teenage girls were sitting in the front of this very mansion. One of them was a little jumpy, as if she too felt like the house was unfairly large. Her hair was a deep chocolate brown and tumbled down her back in waves so long that they effortlessly touched the grass. Though cosmetics were scarce in Panem's outlying districts, this girl had somehow obtained plenty of make-up and had learned to skillfully apply it to her face.

The other girl, whose mouth was constantly opening and closing, seemed to be much more comfortable with the immensity of the property. She too wore make-up, though not as much as her friend, for she seemed more interested in her wardrobe than her face paint, currently wearing a ridiculously flashy sequined dress that hugged her adolescent curves and contrasted deeply with her rather dull-colored hair. Still, those unexciting locks were styled like a princess, with perfect ringlets framing her round face. She and her friend were dressed as similar as a poorer-district citizen could get to the derisible trends of the Capitol, which also happened to be the only thing either of them ever talked about.

"I get that you could learn so much about Capitol fashion if you were chosen as tribute, Marietta, but would it be worth it? I mean, this event could kill you and then you'd _die_," stated the sequined girl in what was her attempt at a matter-of-fact tone.

Looking at her in disbelief, Marietta pulled out a handful of the grass and playfully tossed it at her friend as she said, "I wasn't _serious_, Sarina. Of course I don't want to be a tribute! Being reaped is for strong farm boys and ugly girls; you know that."

Failing to dodge the flying grass, Sarina squealed and batted the green bits out of her polished hair. Once she was satisfied with her appearance, she replied with a sneer, "We would never get picked; our names are only in that bowl thrice! Someone like Eloise could, though, and she'd do just fine. She'd be great in the Hunger Games, since she'd scare all the career tributes away with that pimply face of hers!"

The two girls giggled madly at their cruel joke, clutching their bellies and rolling around in the emerald blades. Once again, Sarina was quick to pluck the grass off of her as soon as she was done, not wanting to spoil her perfect appearance. Then she stood up, brushing herself down obsessively, and held her hand out to Marietta. "Let's go," she announced cheerfully, "It's almost time for the reaping to start, and I don't want to miss Daddy's speech."

She pulled Marietta up in a swift motion and signaled her to follow. Hand in hand, the two walked around to the back of the elephantine mansion, where a fancy automobile awaited them. Normal citizens of District 10 rode their tractors or horse-pulled carts to the Justice Building, but of course, Sarina was no normal citizen. She was the daughter of the mayor, a fact she made sure everyone knew about by riding past them in style. The shiny black car was a higher-end vehicle, even by Capitol standards, so it wasn't difficult for the little princess to make sure there was only one like it in the entire livestock district.

The Justice Building was located in the widest field in District 10. There were no homes in a five-mile radius around it, for all of the animals would become nervous when near. The barn keepers believed that the pure white building brought bad luck upon themselves and their livestock, so they avoided it at all costs. The horses, which had loyally drawn carts full of their masters and their families, were already getting jumpy, and stomps and neighs were the only sounds that could be heard over the deafening silence that had befallen the people.

Even Sarina had become quiet. This area or maybe just this day cast a spell on everyone, regardless of status. Still, she tried to push away her nerves as she gripped Marietta's hand and proudly watched her father walk onto the stage, all the while thinking, _one day, I'll take his place up there, and everyone in the entire nation of Panem will know who I am._

She admired the way her father was able to catch the attention of all as he stated with his deep, calming voice, "Hello, citizens of District Ten. We are gathered here today to celebrate the beginning of the annual Hunger Games. As usual, the video depicting the dark times in the past shall now be played."

Sarina barely watched the film. She had seen it time and time again, and the fast-paced clips of fighting and heroes did not appeal to her at all. Trying to keep herself busy in the meantime, she made a game of sorting the Peacekeepers into categories according to their physical appearance, giving them 'grades' out of ten for how handsome they were. Completely distracted by one particularly good-looking officer, she gave a start when the video ended and her father began to speak again.

"I will now introduce our wonderful escort, Bear Black. Welcome."

Black, who had been standing to the side as he observed the crowd quietly, stepped up as soon as he was introduced. His name fit him like a glove; he was as big and tall as a grizzly with skin as black as night. Dark curls were cropped closely to his perfectly shaped head. He wore no make-up, an unusual thing for a Capitol citizen, and his face was clean-shaven and shiny. Covering his large body and feet was a simple white dress suit and loafers, providing brilliant contrast to his dusky complexion.

"Good day," he greeted, his voice as deep as his coloring, "I hope the animals and their masters have been faring well. Without further distraction, I shall now draw the name of the female tribute."

With her coffee-colored eyes, Sarina scanned the appearance of Bear Black. She had always found him to be rather dull, considering he came from the Capitol, and today he was especially uninteresting. It seemed very unfair to her that District 10 currently had the most boring-looking escort, since she was so fascinated by their fashions. In fact, Sarina was so indulged in criticizing Black's sense of style that she failed to notice her name voiced from his mouth.

Only when he read it again did she ascertain that something was wrong. "Sarina Prince," he announced, adding, "I will not read it a third time. Please join me on the stage."

It was like her entire system shut down. No longer could she think or speak; she could only dart her eyes from her father to the escort and back again. Beside her, Marietta was in a similar state of shock. Her grip on Sarina had loosened, and she gaped at her friend without a word.

It really said something of Sarina's state of mind when she neither spoke to nor batted her painted eyelashes at the officer who came into the crowd to bring her onto the stage. He was the handsome one she had been goggling at before, and the normal Sarina would never have waived such an opportunity to flirt. But for now, she allowed the Peacekeeper to pick her up in his arms rather roughly and drop her onto the stage next to the solemn escort before marching back into position.

Meanwhile, the mayor, who had been silently observing, was unable to watch his precious daughter in such a sorry state any longer. "Wait, there must be a mistake! That is _my_ daughter, _my_ little princess; there is no possible way that she could have been reaped!"

"There are no mistakes in the Hunger Games, Mayor Prince. There is simply luck," said Black as he watched the mayor break down into a heap of expensive clothing on the ground. Unaffected by such a pitiful display, he continued to address the sorry man. "Whether your daughter decides to make that luck good or bad is entirely up to her. Now, please step aside; I must read the male tribute."

Powerless and unable to protest any further, the mayor picked himself up and straightened out his suit. His watery eyes glanced back at Sarina, who still seemed to be in shock. "Excuse me," he apologized to Black in a flat tone. "Please continue."

The escort gave him a curt nod, portraying neither sympathy nor annoyance. Then he dug his large hand into the bowl holding the boys' names and grabbed the first paper he touched without delay. "The male tribute is Axel Peak. Please come up to the stage." Bear Black never congratulated a tribute, nor did he pity them. He simply did his job.

Blank and emotionless eyes followed the path of the male tribute, who was as dark as his escort. Standing beside the sequined and dolled Sarina, Axel looked like a peasant. His clothes, though not completely tattered and torn, weren't the cleanliest; they were patched up in different places, dirt decorating them like patterned cloth.

The shock had yet to wear off of Sarina, so she didn't notice when the large young man took his place to her right. Although not accustomed to being ordered around, she allowed herself to be hurried into the Justice Building without complaint, with only one final thought clouding her mind as she was immersed in darkness:_ I guess I'll get to learn about Capitol fashions after all. _And she was right. Sarina Prince wasn't going to stick out like a sore thumb anymore, because soon she would be in a land of mansions.

* * *

**District 11**

The sun was at its highest point by the fourteenth hour, which marked the beginning of the reaping. The grass in the fields had turned dry and burnt, and the greenhouses were reflecting the sun's rays back into the sky. Toddlers were running through the corn rows, their tanned hands brushing past the ripened stalks as their short little legs chased after the newborn rabbit kits that had invaded through miniscule holes in the farm fencing. They were normal children in a normal world, and today was a normal day. Except that it wasn't, and they weren't.

In a garden of peonies outside a small house in the valley, Daphne Reynolds and Raina Williams were lying on the grass and letting their pink dresses soak in the heat. They both knew better than anyone what day it was and what that meant for them, but neither of them liked to talk about it.

"Why does it have to be on my birthday?" asked Daphne, the smaller of the two with long brown hair that was the opposite of Raina's short blonde bob. It wasn't as if the event had spoiled some big celebration for her, since her mother couldn't afford one anyway. It was just that this particular birthday didn't make Daphne feel very lucky, and luck was the only thing that could keep her name from being called.

"That doesn't mean anything!" argued Raina, trying to console her friend. She and Daphne had known each other all their lives, and through the years had grown quieter and quieter amongst the other kids at the school, to the point where they now only ever talked to each other. "Just because he was-"

"Stop," Daphne interrupted as she closed her eyes to keep the memories from flooding in. She loved Raina with all her heart, but Raina was wrong about this. "It _does_ matter," Daphne told her. "I'm fourteen today. Fourteen."

It was all her mother's fault. Catherine Reynolds had turned to superstition after it had happened, claiming to have seen it coming all because of that two-digit number that Raina kept insisting was meaningless. Numbers were random, not signs, and Daphne should know better. The problem was that Daphne was the only family her mother had left, so she felt obligated to support the belief. After two years, however, it seemed as though that belief had become more than just a way of supporting her mother; it was now a way for Daphne to support herself.

Raina didn't protest any further, and Daphne was still set in her ways. Unlike her mother, though, she wasn't going to claim to have anticipated it after the fact; she could already see it coming now. "Just promise me something," she said to Raina, her eyes still facing the sky.

"Sure," Raina agreed quickly, feeling guilty for picking a fight with Daphne today of all days.

"Don't volunteer for me," said Daphne, this time turning to Raina to look directly at her. She spoke as if it had already happened, as if she'd already been reaped as a tribute, and she knew that Raina would take her place in a heartbeat if given the opportunity.

When Raina shook her head, unwilling to believe that the Reynolds family could be so unfortunate yet again, Daphne stated firmly, "Promise me. Promise me you won't."

Raina didn't want to give in to Daphne's paranoia, but she felt as if she had no choice. Knowing that it couldn't possibly come to this, she nodded her head and said, "Fine. I promise."

A few minutes later, the girls parted momentarily to walk to the square with their families, Daphne and her mother strolling through town in silence as they passed Thompson's Seed Shop and the Lavy Lettuce Lot, while the Williams family rode in on the brand new tractor they'd been itching to show off.

The two girls met up again in the middle of the pack of teenagers, their hands clasped tightly as they watched the Dark Days video and listened to a short speech given by the district's psychotic escort, Kentucky Derby.

The woman was short, even with her heels, and had wild white hair that bloomed from her head like bursts of bubbles. Everything she said was as light and airy as that hair, like feathers floating along the breeze.

"It's so nice to be back here again," she was saying now, no doubt feeling somewhat drugged by all the natural sunlight, which frankly didn't exist in the Capitol. "I will always feel as though District Eleven is my second home."

Behind her, there was obvious grunting from the side of the stage seating Seeder and Chaff, eleven's two dark-skinned mentors who were about as detached from their home district as Kentucky claimed to be from the Capitol. They were middle-aged by now, but of course no one else from District 11 had been able to win the Hunger Games since they had. One and two had been dominating for years, with four and eight each producing a valiant victor before that, and so people tended to think that eleven wasn't even worth rooting for anymore.

Once Kentucky stopped babbling about herself, she walked over to the bowl that held the girls' names, and Raina watched Daphne carefully as she counted Kentucky's steps. "Fourteen," whispered Daphne, but Raina didn't believe her.

Of course, things became much easier to believe when Kentucky drew a name from the bowl and read loud and clear, "Daphne Reynolds!"

Raina wasn't the only one who was stunned. Heads turned from every spot in the square, because they all recognized the name. Every last person in the district, man and woman, old and young, dark and pale, had watched the 67th Games from the sidelines, in which the town's beloved Colby Reynolds had been the fourteenth tribute to die, exactly two weeks after his fourteenth birthday.

By the time Raina reached out for Daphne, the latter was already on the stage, standing there in front of the same people she'd faced while delivering the opening speech at her brother's funeral. Every person in the district had been crying that day, just as they all were now. The only exception was Daphne's mother, who stood in the back with her own parents, unable to shed a single tear because she'd already lost them all.

Kentucky seemed to recognize the name as well, for she had a hand on Daphne's shoulder as she said genuinely, "I am so sorry, sweetheart," before moving onto the boys' bowl.

Buried deep within hundreds of children, Raina stood alone as she tried to make up her mind. It was her last chance to say something, her last chance to volunteer, her last chance to save her friend. Her hand was raised in the air and she was about to do it, but then Daphne spared her a glance and she stopped. After so many years as her best friend, Raina could read Daphne's eyes before she could read her lips, and so with one look she understood that Daphne had in fact meant what she'd said. Still young and naïve, neither of the girls stood a fighting chance of winning, and Daphne had already lost her brother. If Raina took her place, Daphne would have nobody left. In this case, the selfless thing wouldn't be to volunteer for Daphne; the selfless thing would be to let her go, because that was the only way to save her from any more pain.

Once it was clear that Daphne's fate had been sealed, Kentucky read out the name of the male tribute. "Kelton Lavy!" she called, and though it didn't seem possible, even more tears were flowing now.

There was a scream from one of the young children in the back of the crowd that caught most people's attention while Kelton walked to the stage. By the time they all turned to face him, anyone who hadn't known him before now understood why this event had turned so incredibly tragic.

It was Kelton's first year in the running. He was the twelve year-old lettuce-picker who'd sprint across the Lavy Lot every day to act as a human owl between his father and the workers. He was the fastest kid in the entire district, small and spry with icy eyes, always on his toes and always headed somewhere. He was constantly running in his own direction, but now the road had been chosen for him.

None of it seemed fair. All of the seed-planters were thinking the same thing as the results of the reaping slowly sunk in. Though they all understood the odds of probability, they couldn't possibly fathom its reason. Hadn't Daphne and her mother already lost enough? Didn't Kelton deserve a chance at living? Why them? Why anyone? And though none of them wanted to believe it, they had seen it coming. After all, today wasn't just a normal day. This wasn't a normal world, and these weren't normal children. They were dry and burnt from running and lying beneath the sun so long. Now, it was time for that sun to set.

* * *

**District 12**

On a regular day, the streets of the Seam would be filled with coal miners heading off on their morning shifts. They would march to a dead beat, shoulders hunched and fingernails dirty with the dust they had long given up trying to scrub off. Only the thought of feeding their families another meal kept these men going, silently but surely. After bidding their husbands and brothers farewell, the women would set off to tend to their duties. Large buckets and basins would be dragged out and elder girls, eager to help their mothers, would happily unravel hoses and scurry about with armfuls of dirty garments. The younger ones would run around, ducking under hung-up sheets and providing everyone with a reason to smile. On a regular day, everyone was up bright and early, contributing some to the little they had.

However, today was not a regular day. Families might as well sleep in, cuddled together until late afternoon, considering there was a chance that they may never see each other again. Today was reaping day, and for a child from District 12, having one's name read off of the little slip of paper was equivalent to having it read off of a freshly engraved tombstone.

But the Seam was not completely lifeless. Memphis Tenn, Kiran Phyre, and Jasmine Lai had their backs sprawled across the barren patches of grass near the fences separating the district from the outlying woods. Each one was touching the other in some way. Memphis placed her hand on Kiran's rougher and darker one as she played with the ring she gave him last year, which he now wore on his index finger. Kiran's arm was wrapped around Jasmine's thin shoulders, and across his lap were the Asian girl's bony legs, on which rested Memphis's other hand.

"Happy Hunger Games." One could almost taste the bitterness of Jasmine's words as she spat them out in disgust, coming off as weak and vulnerable even though they all knew she was the strongest of the three. Long, raven hair tumbled down her back, obscuring the view of Kiran's arm. Even in her crouched position, her physique was the epitome of perfection. She was dressed in clothing that could have been tailored for royalty compared to others in the Seam, broadcasting her status as a citizen of the merchant section.

She winced as Kiran gave her a friendly squeeze. "Oh, cheer up," the mocha-skinned boy said airily. "On the bright side, you only have to go through this two more times not counting today! Then we won't have to worry about any of us leaving anymore." The two girls couldn't help but send each other a smile at his undying spirit, even when faced with a situation such as this. The trio huddled together simultaneously for a long hug, holding the position for a good couple of minutes.

"We should go," Memphis announced half-heartedly in her low voice, uneager to break the embrace. "It's almost time, and it's annoying to wait in the back of the line for the registration."

Unwillingly and slowly, they untangled themselves. Jasmine was the first to stand up, making sure to brush the little brown blades of grass off her dress. When she turned around, she was faced with a pouty Kiran, both his arms stretched out to her and his legs spread in a V formation like a baby demanding to be held.

It was impossible not to be amused. "Kiran, you're twice my size," she laughed. "Pick your own heavy self up instead of being dependent on a fragile little girl!" Seeing neither his pout nor his body wedge from the spot, Jasmine sighed with a smile as she grabbed one of his wiry arms and pulled. He came up like a weed being uprooted, grinning like a fool, and gave the girl a hug.

Jasmine reciprocated, wrapping her arms around his waist while asking, "Do you ever remember to tuck in your shirt?" Kiran always looked disheveled, even on reaping day. He laughed and shrugged his shoulders helplessly as Jasmine jokingly demanded, "Okay, now you help Memphis up, and stop being such a lazy bum."

"Yeah, yeah, I'm on it." Giving the small girl a wink, he scooped Memphis up bridal-style and swung her on his back. "Let's roll! Off to the square we go!"

Jasmine laughed as he took off, watching as a very surprised Memphis bounced atop Kiran's back. It didn't take long for Memphis to settle into the position, not once protesting as she failed to hide her blushing cheeks.

By the time Jasmine caught up and they arrived at the square, a crowd was already forming. A pleasant breeze carried the scent of freshly laundered clothing and viciously washed hair to all corners of this open space; only on reaping day would children allow their mothers to scrub them down and dress them up in their best skirts and slacks. The square was one of the nicest places in District 12, with colorful banners and shops surrounding it in all directions. A festive holiday feeling could have been derived from it, if it weren't for the cameramen crouched on the tops of the buildings like vultures, recording the event from all angles.

Families could only watch from the sidelines as their precious children were herded into roped areas divided by age. The younger ones were placed in the front, each one of them wearing a terrified look on their face as they scanned the perimeters for their families. A little less panicked than the younger ones, the older children were brought to the back of the crowd. It was easy to spot Kiran, being one of the tallest and most handsome boys in the second row from the back. Memphis, who had long since slid out of Kiran's hold sheepishly, was now in the clump of sixteens, gripping Jasmine's hand so tightly that it was turning a bluely-tinted pale color.

"Memphis." The sound of her name made Memphis's head turn to the right, her long mane of bushy chocolate hair brushing her back. Jasmine's dark eyes were staring straight into her own; she knew what was coming, the agreement that was renewed every year.

Before the taller girl could speak, Memphis whispered to her, "I know. We _do not_, under _any_ circumstances, volunteer for each other."

Jasmine sealed her lips tightly, giving Memphis a terse nod. Hand in hand, the two of them observed as the mayor walked onto the stage set up before the Justice Building, topped with a podium, three chairs, and two glass bowls. A large screen dropped and began to play the video that was shown every year, watched with disgust by each citizen in the square.

"Oh, I just _love_ that video! I feel like I'm watching a movie whenever I see it!" All eyes were on the bubbly young woman who took her place at the podium. Seeing Effie Trinket was like watching the seasons change, but annually. This year, her inflated hair was dyed a ridiculous shade of blood red, and her absurd outfit was comprised of blinding teal pants, comically high-heeled boots that matched her hair, and a puffy crimson jacket. Perched on her head was a jaunty little hat shaped like a coalminer's helmet. "Hello, my lovely District Twelve! I hope you have been enjoying the wonderful breeze today! It is my honor and pleasure to serve as your escort once again this year!"

The crowd rippled slightly as heads turned to watch the bright woman waddle over to the two glass bowls, her high heels obviously interfering with her ability to walk. Standing directly between them, she exclaimed with relish, "Happy Hunger Games, my darlings! And may the odds be _ever_ in your favor! As usual, ladies shall be first."

Her jeweled hand plunged into the glass bowl on the left, rustling around as she swirled the contents. Everyone flinched when her fingers grasped a slip of paper, and watched with their breaths held as she slowly drew it out. "Ahem, and the female tribute is Memphis Tenn!"

Jasmine felt the iron grip on her hand go limp as Memphis's name was called. Not a sound was heard as she pulled Jasmine into a loose hug, nor as she pushed her way through the children. Unable to break the pact, Jasmine could only watch in despair as the distance between herself and her best friend grew larger. She watched as other teenagers patted Memphis on the back, squeezed her hands, and whispered words of encouragement. She watched as Pavel, Memphis's thirteen year-old brother who was always busy melding scraps of metal into rings, ran up to her and fiercely linked his arms around her, like he would never let her go. She watched as Kiran came and slowly coaxed the hysterical Pavel off of her and gave Memphis a hug himself. She watched as her best friend walked up the stairs to the stage, where Effie was standing with a giant smile on her face, to accept her fate.

"Congratulations! Stand right over there, please." Memphis, still as quiet as the dead, dragged herself over to the spot where Effie had gestured. Her head hung low, unable to make eye contact with anyone in the crowd.

Next, Effie's painted fingers dug into the boys' bowl, once again doing her little churning movement that churned the insides of the citizens even more so than the papers. Making her decision, she pulled out a name and announced, "The male tribute is Kiran Phyre!"

The initial silence was deafening. And then, out of nowhere, came a rush of reactions. The mewls of sobbing girls that had once hoped to be with Kiran mixed in with a despairing shriek from Ramya Phyre, who was buried in the same row as Pavel. As the latter tried to hold back his own tears, he grabbed Ramya's hand tightly. While Memphis had no parents to cry over her, Kiran's name triggered waterfalls in the surrounding perimeter as his mother dropped to the ground in frenzy. Kiran told himself not to go to her yet as he flashed reassuring smiles to everyone that spoke out to him, soothing girls and high-fiving boys as he went. He stopped in front of Pavel and Ramya, pulling them both into a hug before he straightened up to make eye contact with his older brother. Nimai, nineteen and handsome but much more put together than Kiran, simply nodded as he wiped back their mother's unruly hair. Kiran jerked his head once in response.

Just before he separated himself from the crowd, he found Jasmine. Ribbons of tears streaked her flawless features, though she held her head high. He took both of her hands in his, giving them a squeeze. "Don't cry," Kiran whispered, but she was already crying. "It'll be okay," he promised, but it already wasn't okay.

And with those empty words to accompany her, Jasmine Lai watched her other third slowly but surely widen the distance between them and climb onto the stage. All of Effie's final statements, all of the words of condolences from her peers, all of it turned into nothing. She was nothing now, as empty as the streets of the Seam on reaping day, and all she could think about were the two tombstones that would soon take the place of her very best friends.

* * *

**District 13**

The disasters always happened at night. Most people thought that was because it was easier to get away with causing those disasters when there was little chance of being seen. After all, the night was dark and quiet, vast and mysterious, dangerous and terrifying. In a way, those people were right, because it was true that the local thieves and rebels thrived in the darkness, but it wasn't because they were afraid of getting caught. It was because they lived to see the aftermath. They longed for the moment when the sun would rise and all would see the mark they'd left. They were addicted to the taste of the smoke that came after inhaling it. They were eager to reap what they'd sewn, so naturally, reaping night was the best night of them all.

At least, that was how Chucky felt about it. He could hardly sit still inside the broken-down elevator he called home as he counted down the minutes until the reaping started. Normally around this time, he'd be off scavenging for food in the dump above the district's underground city before breaking into the next lab on his list to see how much radiation poisoning he could spread. It was all good fun to make trouble and get away with it, for everybody knew Chucky to be the district's rebellious thief, yet he was never prosecuted for the crimes he'd commit.

It was never made clear to him why he got away with so much law-breaking, which was probably why he continued to do it. He was a hyper and hostile thirteen year-old kid who secretly longed for attention, so it was in his instincts to keep lashing out in hopes that somebody might notice. But no matter how many labs Chucky broke into, or mines he filled with gas, or bombs he exploded inside newly constructed elevator shafts, he never got caught. He was never hauled into the mayor's office or questioned about his parents' whereabouts, because no one cared. No one had ever cared.

The only people Chucky could remember ever playing a part in his life were a man and a woman, whom he'd always assumed were his parents, though he couldn't recall their faces. All he remembered of them were outlines –silhouettes of surprisingly small bodies – that used to invade the various shelters he'd lived in when he was younger. They'd arrive in the middle of the night when he was asleep and sometimes he'd open his eyes and catch a glimpse of them before they'd run off just as quickly as they'd come. In the morning, he'd wake to find fresh food and water left behind for him, but they'd never leave him with what he wanted... information. That was why, when he was ten years old, he'd decided to go looking for them. That was when he'd become the district's very own ghost, floating unseen through the night and causing more ruckus than he'd ever need to make a trail for the two other ghosts he'd seen as a child.

But he never found them, and once he started making trouble, the two others never visited him again. The loneliness eventually took its toll, and soon all Chucky cared about was lighting fires and watching them burn. And to him, that's exactly what the Hunger Games were all about.

Every year, he would stand in a mass of young workers who were the poorest in all of Panem and watch two of their lives end. He'd see all the destruction that the Games would cause on an already crumbling society and would relish in the nightmares they created. He couldn't explain it, but a part of him enjoyed watching the tributes and their families suffer. It was the only time of the year that he felt like he wasn't the sole person in the world who was constantly suffering from insurmountable pain.

Tonight, as soon as Chucky saw that the sun had set through his peephole in the ceiling of his shaft, he started crawling back into the elevator and out through its bottom, where he grabbed the connecting cord and repelled down to the empty landing of the Justice Building's top floor. From there, he had to be careful to avoid the white-suited Peacekeepers as he swerved into the closest bathroom and broke through one of its air vents. After a few more minutes of claustrophobic travel, Chucky found the spot he'd marked last year for the first reaping he'd ever been eligible for and pushed up on the piece of steel he'd previously exploded with a grenade but had since bolted back into place.

This brought him to very center of the crowd that had formed on the roof of the building, which didn't seem much like a roof, since it was barely above ground level. A few of the kids gasped upon seeing him there, but none of them dared to get in his way as he ran over to the registration table to have his blood drawn. He was the last in the district to register and was met with angry expressions from Capitol workers as he smiled back at them and then stalked off toward the screen that appeared to be floating in thin air.

The monitor stood behind a small stage at the front of the crowd, and it had just begun to illuminate the darkened sky with moving pictures of all of Chucky's favorite things: guns, guts, and gore. But the film was over all too soon, shutting off rather bluntly to be replaced with flickering lights that shone across the stage but came nowhere near the sea of onlookers. This made them all look straight to their escort because they couldn't possibly see anything else.

"Welcome, welcome," said Saturn Lens with tightly clasped hands. She was tall and thin and liked to show it, currently dressed in a long-sleeved black leotard with silvery heels. Her short, spiky hair matched her shoes, glowing in the dark and drawing attention to her sinisterly hollow eyes. She was by far the most intimidating of all the Hunger Games escorts, which Chucky couldn't help but like about her. After all, intimidation was much like the nuclear weapons that Chucky was so fascinated by – it could lay dormant for a lifetime, but get too close, and it might turn lethal.

"I stand before you, citizens of District Thirteen, to conduct the final reaping in the Sixty-Ninth annual Hunger Games," continued Saturn, her eyes still captivating all who looked upon her. "Twenty-four tributes have already been chosen through the course of the day: twelve boys, twelve girls, five volunteers, and two orphans. But two tributes have yet to be announced, and I think it's safe to say that they could very well be game-changers in what is sure to be a brutal fight."

She was trying to gain momentum by instilling the district with the false hope that this year, they might produce a victor. But District 13 hadn't won these Games in over three decades, and there was no question as to why. Kids from thirteen were weak and frail, often times even sick upon entering the arena. Worst of all and much like Chucky himself, thirteen was full of orphans, their parents having died off in one of the many accidents in the mines and labs, and why would orphans have any desire to stay alive? Why would they fight if they had nothing worth fighting for? After all, wasn't that exactly why Saturn had made a point to mention the two orphans who had already been reaped? To let the remaining prospective tributes know that they wouldn't be the first ones out.

But there would be no such luck, since the name Saturn called out of one of her glass bowls was Honor Ehran, a timidly beautiful eighteen year-old girl who happened to be an orphan herself. She stepped onto the stage after pushing through the other side of the crowd to find some younger boy, and then she stood next to Saturn as if the wind had just been knocked out of her. Her back was perfectly straight, her expression still and lifeless, her soft blanket of sun-colored hair wrapped dreamily around her cheeks and hiding her fragile soul from the violent world.

It was funny, but upon seeing her, Chucky was somehow reminded of the female silhouette that had haunted him for so many years. Both faces were as indistinct as the summit of a mountain hidden in clouds, but there was still something wholesome to be found in their similar outlines – a sort of shy sadness, a maternal longing, a round kindness.

But Chucky didn't have much time to compare and contrast before Saturn had moved on to the boys and was announcing, "Our male tribute is the apparently surname-less Chucky!"

There was a shimmering of whispers that filled the air as Chucky mounted the stage and stood in Saturn's spotlight. Once the immediate shock wore off, Chucky made it his mission to make a quick impression, unlike the stillness that Honor had left behind. Instead, he shook Saturn's hand with excitement as he bounced around the stage, jumping in place as he tried to empty his pockets of his many knick-knacks and survival essentials.

After a minute or two, he found what he was looking for. Taking the firework in one hand, he lit it before any Peacekeeper could stop him and sent sparks shooting toward the moon. He couldn't quite explain his joy over the shocked looks from the audience, nor did he understand why he was suddenly so ecstatic about being reaped as a tribute. Maybe it was because he liked to light fires and watch them burn. Maybe he was addicted to the taste of the smoke that came after inhaling it. Maybe he longed for the moment when the sun would rise and the people he'd been looking for all his life would finally see the mark he'd left. Maybe being reaped was the disaster that Chucky had been waiting for, because it finally gave him the chance to be a part of the aftermath.

* * *

_**Note:** Thank you so much for sticking with this! This story has been a lot of work for the both of us and we've put so much time into planning it, so any feedback we receive would be incredibly appreciated. We also really want readers to be as involved as possible as the story goes on, so all by all means chat away with us in a review or on tumblr, and tell us your thoughts about the following: Favorite reaping? Favorite character? Least favorite? Which tribute are you betting on to win? Which will be out early? Any predictions for alliances (maybe even cross-districts)? We'd love to hear from you, and we'll reply to everyone we can with hints/spoilers and possibly even answers to your questions (or keep our mouths shut if you want to be spoiler-free)._

_Again, thank you all! The next chapter should be slightly shorter, but it will still take a while to write, so expect to see it around early August._

_-Hailey and Somee_


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